Finkelle Keizaal: finlaat Dovahkiin
by Kendov Ahkrin Prem
Summary: Sidonie finds herself the prophetic last Dragonborn, her mere existence said to be the herald of the end days; the return of Alduin, the World-Eater. Dragons fly the skies, brother slays brother, Elder Scroll in one hand and sword in the other, she comes to realize she has absolutely no idea what she's doing. Being a housecarl to a politically polarizing Jarl was so. much. easier.
1. Chapter 1: Kelle

Disclaimer: I do not own Skyrim, the Elder Scrolls, or any of the relevant content created by Bethesda.

* * *

_When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world_

_When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped_

_When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles_

_When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls_

_When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding_

_The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn._

-As depicted by Prior Emelene Madrine in Book of the Dragonborn, Order of Talos, Weynon Priory. 3E360

* * *

It sat across the desk from her, and she stared warily back at it like it was a serpent preparing to bite. It seemed an innocent enough thing for an inanimate object; elaborate parchment held together in a gilded roll, fancy etched markings on either end with a small handle finished by a simple knob not terribly unlike you would find on a door. Pulled open as easily as a book by grabbing one end of the scroll and pulling downward revealed what appeared to be constellations with lines drawn between them in no obvious pattern.

Sidonie shivered and smoothed the goosebumps from her upper arms with her hands. She knew better, having opened the _Kel_, the Elder Scroll and having seen it for herself. During her journey to find the damned thing; a thing of blasphemy as Arngeir had called it, a book written by a man dedicated to the _Kelle_ had revealed that those that knew better yet had not been trained on how to read the mysterious artifacts that told legend and prophecy alike would go irrevocably blind in addition to madness. Despite knowing this, she had to open it, to see for herself that it was everything the legends had told.

Eventually her sight had returned in full, but not without a measure of fright stumbling through the dark, deserted Dwemer ruins over scattered Animunculi and the dead, also blind, Falmer she had slew before making her way through.

Sidonie returned her eyes to the book she had been reading, setting it on the desk beside the _Kel_. She was on the last page of the small black book with a single stylized symbol embossed in silver on the cover. The prophecy of the last Dragonborn. A prophecy that supposedly was _her_. Even as she shook her head in disbelief, she knew it was true. She knew it to her core, even if she did not believe yet. The signs were there, the proof was there. The prophecy had unerringly fulfilled itself without her aid to the very last line. Even the damned civil war currently underway was written away in her mind to herald her to her calling.

Just as so, the voices of dragons whose souls she had absorbed in combat, consumed even, called out to her in her mind. They did not speak to her, as a voice would. They simply were a part of her, she just _knew_ what they knew. She didn't have to think or digest them. The memories laid out before her were there as if they were her own.

But they weren't.

The prophecy did not say how the story, _her story,_ would end. And if one was already mad, how much more damage could reading a _Kel_ do anyway?

Sidonie found herself pacing, something she found herself doing a lot lately as she retreated to her personal fortress to think, to research and discover more about her fate, the fate of the world. At first she searched for anything, a sign that the prophecy was wrong or mistaken but all she found was more answers she didn't want to see. Catching herself mid-pace, she sighed heavily to the thick granite walls that surrounded her. The fire in the hearth flickered as it slowly died as she had not tended to it in some time. A small measure of light was beginning to creep through the thick glass diamond shaped panes that served as the room's windows. For a moment she felt tired exhausted even.

She didn't hear the faint click of a key unlocking her door or the similiarly quiet creak of wood as the same heavy door. The Nord woman found her hand at the grip of her sword and drawing it from her scabbard. She turned on the balls of her feet and her blade was placed at a man's throat. He was familiar, she knew him. His face bore no expression except about his vibrant green eyes. A small measure of amusement at her hasty action perhaps. He looked tired though, maybe as tired as she.

Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm. She lived in his palace as a matter of courtesy on his part, and her blade was at his throat.

"You know I don't like it when you sneak up on me." Sidonie growled rather ill-temperedly. The man showed no sign of being fazed as ever.

"Apologies, Dragonborn." Ulfric responded with a nod. A gesture between equals. She didn't like that. She never thought she would miss the air of arrogance about the man that had come before she was revealed as the would-be savior of Tamriel. He had called her Ysmir once, as the Greybeards had done and she had all but blown up at him. His court was aghast but unsure of the new change in her social standing. The man was Jarl, king of his castle, his rule undisputed.

"You know I don't like it when you call me that." Sidonie frowned, sheathing her sword at her right hip. She turned away from him to regard the mess that her desk was. Papers haphazardly placed where there was room, tucked between piles of books, some read, some not. Several with bookmarks for later reading.

"I honestly didn't mean to come unannounced and bearing such offenses," Ulfric said in a light drawl with the faintest suggestion of sarcasm. "but Sifnar informs me that you had returned some three or four days ago and have yet to answer your door."

Sidonie blinked, her eyes moving in thought as she digested that information, surprised at the passage of time. Her hand moved to her face to message the sudden gritty feeling of exhaustion from her eyes. "It only felt like a few hours. I've been reading."

"It must have been enthralling for you to remain holed up here in your room." Ulfric replied, stepping to the desk and taking note of the books there, several of them sitting on each other in ill-kept stacks. His voice trailed off and a solitary finger tapped each book in turn as he read off the name. "_Book of the Dragonborn_, _Ruminations of the Elder Scroll_, _The Warp in the West_, _The Oblivion Crisis_, _On the Great Collapse_, _Decree of Monument_... This is no light reading, woman."

"Understandable then, why I would fail to answer the door." Sidonie said with the lightest of wry smiles.

Ulfric pondered that, while staring at the contents of her desk. He was obviously trying to piece together the significance of what would draw all these books together. He had a marked interest in the world, or at least this piece of it. He patently expected her to explain herself to him without a word. She did not blame him, the dragons were becoming a serious problem in his war strategy. Dragons apparently thought men were tasty.

Sidonie sighed again, knowing that he once he had his mind on something, he was unlikely to let it go until she made it uninteresting to him. Or something else would catch his interest. Unfortunately, he found anything involving the _Thu'um_ to be facinating since he had once studied with the Greybeards himself as a boy.

"I'm researching the prophecy that depicts the coming of the end days." Sidonie said in a droll, bland voice, crossing her arms over her chest. "I imagine you are familiar with it."

"Did you find what you were looking for?" He asked, running a finger on the long metal case of the Elder Scroll leaning at the far end of the desk, against the cold stone wall.

"Just more questions." Sidonie replied bitterly before catching the Jarl's forearm in her hand. She looked to the man with a stern expression. "Do not damage that _Kel_, I need it."

"This is an Elder Scroll?" Ulfric asked in surprise, an eyebrow raising as if in disbelief.

"Aye." Sidonie replied. "I'm to take it to the Throat of the World to learn how to defeat Alduin with it."

"Is that all?" He said with a chuckle, though the laugh did not meet with his eyes. "I used to think that I had a weight on my shoulders, but then I am reminded that you must save the world. I just have to save Skyrim."

Sidonie laughed lightly at that. "_Pahlok fahdoni_."

Ulfric's smile turned to a frown with the barest hint of what was possibly sadness? "It's amazing how quickly you have learned their speech. Before when I shouted, it had amazed you, and in the little time since then you have surpassed me immeasurably."

"It _feels_ like I've always known, and had just forgotten how to. I'm glad you understand some of it at least. I hate the strange looks people give me when I forget. I hate that I even forget."

"_Kod_ _prem_, _krinkendov_."

* * *

"Housecarl!"

Sidonie turned her head to see who called. She was sitting astride a horse getting ready to depart the city, heading slowly through the wall of refugees from both Morrowind and war stricken Skyrim's mid lands as well. Her eyes scanned the crowd before her, searching for the voice that had called out to her, but only one man was looking directly at her. His face was familiar. Ralof. A tall blond man from Riverwood. One of hers, even.

"Hail, Ralof. What can I do for you this fine day?" She asked the man genuinely glad to see him. She had been in charge of his unit's training, and they had turned out to be a highly successful group of new recruits, but that was a while ago. It was a fine day, the sky was clear and while she wouldn't call it warm, it was crispy and airy at the least. The wind had ceased in the morning, some of the snow that had fallen the night before was at least considering melting.

"I'm told you're leaving for Ivarstead." He said, pausing just before naming the small village at the base of the mountain it was famous for sitting beneath. His eyes slid from her face to the giant elaborate scroll nestled behind a quiver and bow strung across her back.

"Yes... yes I am." She told him, regarding him with a friendly smile. Her eyes began to twinkle with a hint of mischief. It was not long ago that he had been promoted to command his own unit of men. He was rather nervous at the idea of being in charge, or so he said. He didn't look nervous. "Do you want me to whisper a prayer to the gods for your travels and future conquests while I'm there?"

"No... just take care of yourself Dragonborn." Ralof started with a pause, not meeting her gaze for a time before his eyes shifted back to her, full of some emotion she couldn't place her finger on.

She summarily frowned at him. He grimaced in return.

"I know you don't like being called that, but all the same. You mean a lot to us." Ralof finished, his expression turning to the usual stubborn one he wore when he thought he was right. She sighed at him, for what felt like a long line of constant sighing.

_Us._ The Stormcloak rebellion. She had no idea why, she wasn't a Stormcloak; just the rebel leader's bodyguard, his housecarl, and not even a good one at that, as often as she was gone these days. She knew about the assassination attempts. It's not as if they would politely cease because she was busy trying to discover how to end the dragon threat against Skyrim.

"I'll keep that in mind. But know that those you revere as holy men, the Greybeards call me doom-driven. It may not be my fate to be cared for, even if by myself."

Ralof flashed his familiar grin and Sidonie felt lighter, even if it was just by a little. He started at once, his voice full of pride that she wish she felt in herself these days. "Ulfric would be hard pressed to find a better housecarl."

"You mean like one that is actually around instead of off chasing dragons?" Sidonie asked with a light laugh, her fair eyebrow raised in question. She knew the sly questions that were asked in her absence. An unprotected Jarl; that was how she had returned to Windhelm in the first place. Nords were not a particularly subtle people, after all.

"No more than the Stone-Fist chases Imperials across the plains of Skyrim." Ralof retorted.

"Fair enough."

* * *

Sidonie found herself in the peaceful hamlet of Ivarstead. The war had been raging for years now, yet somehow the village had remained practically untouched. The guards here wore the purple tartan of Riften. While the government of the Rift was Stormcloak leaning, the Imperials arriving through Falkreath hold have yet to give the small town any trouble. It sat in the shade of the Throat of the World, the largest mountain in Tamriel aside from the ruined Red Mountain of Vvardenfell. Perhaps it was because if an Imperial came to the village, the people there merely thought it to be another pilgrim or traveller passing through.

She eased her mount into a light gait, it was early yet when she rose from the inn in town, having arrived late in the afternoon the day before. The trek to the top of the mountain was no small feat, but having made it several times, she was confident that she could make it mounted now, as long as there were no bears or giant cats along the route. If there were, she would merely shout them off the side of the cliff.

Life had changed since her first journey up the mountain, a frightened young woman merely following events as they unfolded. First Helgen to _Hofkahsejun_ to the deep barrows of a long _dilondovaar_ lord, back up again to face a newly resurrected _Dovah_ in battle. Being summoned to High Hrothgar. Finding an ancient horn and being named _Ysmir_ by the Greybeards. Bears and sabrecats seemed a worry of yesterday the same way a stranger causes worries a young child. She had found being housecarl to the leader of the rebellion in a civil war more than daunting. Assassins? Bears? Pah.

To be fair, bears weren't exactly a worry before. The woman had been trained in sword and steel since a young girl, but they were _bears_. Giant killing machines that would maul and eat you if you weren't careful. The assassins were not generally of the Dark Brotherhood fare, but rather Imperial soldiers that seemed to take to sneaking more than the rest of them. Or so she imagined. Who sends _fourteen _assassins in a single night all at once? It had been a bloodbath, but one definitively in her favor.

The climb itself was fairly uneventful, the view of the midlands of Skyrim no longer quite as breathtaking or exciting in their beauty. It wasn't Skyrim, it was her. Her thoughts drew futher on to what was in store for her. Reading the _Kel_, travelling back in time to learn a shout that Arngeir had said would render anyone else mad and blind, the shout itself being a thing of evil. Being made by _Joor_ to defeat dragons based on hatred and anger.

The only shout made by man. She counted herself among men and still was not eager to learn it. Using the _thu'um _was projecting one's self, ones essence into whatever you were saying and throwing it at your target whether it be a foe in a fight or a simple whisper to yourself. You took the word into yourself and understood it. To understand such anger, such fury, to take it into one's soul...

She wasn't quite sure what else her soul could bear. It was just a few months ago that she had learned that while she was born a man, her soul was _dovah_. It opened so many questions, many of which she still did not have the answers to. But it also explained a lot.

She felt selfish. A nord should always awaken in the morning and think of her home instead of whatever doom awaited. Fight well or die well, and all that.

"Greetings, _Dovahkiin_." Arngeir said, politely as always, bowing his head to her. She inclined her head and stepped past him heading to the courtyard without saying much else.

"You have the _Kel_." He said quietly, his voice almost masked by the drawn up hood he wore; it was not a question. The last time Sidonie had spoken to him on the matter some time ago before she had gone ruin diving, he had called the ancient device's existance a blasphemy to creation. The Greybeards seemed to take their measure in what was or will be, but not in prophecy. Almost seemed ironic, given the circumstances of the last Dragonborn of legend; Talos.

"Aye." Sidonie said and turned to face him, her face guarded and carefully neutral. "And I make my way to Paarthurnax."

"He has decided to help you in this, we stand by his decision." Arngeir said with another bow. His voice was slightly strained, but seemed considerably more accepting of her actions than the last time they spoke. At his words, Sidonie relaxed and nodded making her way out to the other side of the hallowed building of peace maintained by the Greybeards, continuing her trek up the mountain.

* * *

A/N: I know it's not classy to mention, or relevant to the fic itself, but I like to write when I'm _drunk_, and I drink randomly and sporatically. Just a forewarning to those who like to check back for updates! As a result, I'll keep my notes at the bottom, if any. This is going to be the longest one, promise.

I have pairings in mind (and subject to change on a whim!, okay, maybe not a _whim_) for those of you that are interested (or search for them), but... _spoilerths_. It's been a while and I'm rusty, so bear with me. I may update the summary to reflect them once they occur, maybe not. I may never write another chapter! Hahaha!

Sequence of events will likely not match those that occur in the game via questing, _because I can_. Lets face it, we've all played the game, we already know what happened there. No need to visit it again necessarily. This is fanfiction, I'm making this shit up as I go along! The fun part is keeping it mostly canon... _mostly..._


	2. Chapter 2: Jorrvaskr

_When the skies cleared, and Ylgar glimpsed again, with new eyes, the land of his past and future home, he knew his brother's vessel was not within his horizon. The Darumzu, arriving late, drew forth onto the sands and Ylgar rushed to his father to seek word of his brother. The great Ysgramor, harbinger of us all, wept for his lost son, and sought comfort in the arms of his only remaining joy. _

-Songs of the Return, Vol II: The First Tale of the Darumzu, part of the traditional legend of Ysgramor and his Five Hundred Companions.

* * *

The full mug of mead she had just unceremoniously downed was sweet this time, a nicer vintage perhaps, or a different make altogether. Maybe she was drunker than she was a moment ago to where the taste was more palatable. She had never been good with telling the difference between the types of mead, much to her father's chagrin. She was young yet however, and here in Jorrvaskr, she would _learn_. After all, the giant overturned ship the legends told of was a re-purposed mead-hall, she was told. It sure did look like it anyway.

Meat cooking on the spit, expertly tended to by Tilma. Wafting off fragrantly, with whispers of what was going to be for dinner. Bread baked and leavened, sweat treats clustered about on trays cluttered amongst the ample and seemingly never ending supply of mead pitchers. Once Sidonie asked how much of the cost of upkeep for Jorrvaskr went to mead, Tilma had laughed and said whatever she thought it was, double it.

Flushed with alcohol, she young warrior stood from where she sat at the end of the banquet tables and made her way out to the porch behind the ship for some fresh air and respite from the smoke and heat from raging hearth fires. It was a nice day out, the sun was just setting, leaving the clear open sky in shades of red, orange and a deepening purple as night set in. It was the middle of summer, birds tweeted in the rafters, darting about. Laughter from her shield-siblings as they drank and ate their fill. Some having returned from contracts, some preparing to do just that tomorrow. Others having spent a full day training themselves or with others, the new bloods perhaps.

One man had spent the day lazing around. Sidonie didn't blame him, she had decided after some drunken musing. He had been running around for the last six days straight, performing contract after contract within Whiterun and Falkreath holds.

"Tired running around, are you Farkas?" Sidonie asked loudly, louder than she intended to. The alcohol made her care less, ultimately. "Was wondering when I would have a chance to spar you again."

"For a little bit anyway. You're drunk." Farkas said with an open smile, before wrinkling his nose ever so slightly as Sidonie swaggered to the table where the big warrior was sitting with his considerably more somber, quieter twin.

"I had a good day. I got to beat that milk drinker Nazeem's face in." Sidonie said in a long drawl, sitting haphazardly on the bench with the two of them.

"I imagine that was a challenge." Vilkas drawled, his steel-grey eyes flashing from behind his dark war-painted eyes to her face, his voice mimicking her own sarcastically.

"It was more of a challenge to stop." Sidonie said with a sigh, propping her elbow on the table and resting her face in it. Her eyes moved deliberately from Farkas to Vilkas where they rested for a few moments before she continued; "What did you do today Vilkas? I heard you killed a bear. That doesn't sound terribly exciting now does it?"

"Look you two." Farkas all but spat in irritation as Vilkas' eyes glinted, his head raising in defiance where it had been slightly slumped over his own mug. "We all know what happens here. One or both of you get drunk and start baiting the other, and then you get into a fight. One of you will eventually give up, or pass out."

Sidonie regarded Farkas for a moment, her face still being cupped in her hand, then looked back to Vilkas and spoke as if Farkas was not sitting with them. "You know I think he wants us to skip the taunting part and just go straight for the fisticuffs."

"Seems to be that way. Shall we?" Vilkas said to his mug as he downed the rest of it's contents, making a rather sour expression, smacking his lips at the dregs.

"We shall." Sidonie said with a smile and a laugh. She moved her hand brace the table between her and the smaller of the twins and threw the other fist in a punch across the table, just as Vilkas' eyes raised up from the mug he had set down a half moment before. Her fist connected with his face and he fell backwards heavily off the bench, his heavy iron plate clanging loudly on the stonework floor.

"Bloody bitch!" Vilkas hollered as he pushed himself sideways, grabbing the table to pull himself upright as Sidonie's laughter chimed right on cue. He glared daggers at her, blood flowing in a thin stream from his left nostril. "That was dirty!"

"Don't be such a milk drinker. It's a fist fight with a sibling, not an epic song being recited about your bear." Sidonie drawled, moving around to the other side of the table grabbing Vilkas' forearm in a quick and pulling him upright. "Besides, you should be honored. That is the fist I hit Nazeem with."

Vilkas responded with a well place fist to her jaw, sending the belligerent young woman sprawling off the porch, down the short steps and into the training yard. Farkas sighed heavily and crossed his large muscular arms over his chest, regarding his shield-siblings with a strange mix of amusement and exasperation. Sidonie rubbed her jaw when an iron booted foot delivered a swift kick to her own iron covered ribs.

Sidonie howled in pain but grabbed the offending foot in a vice like grip, pulling Vilkas off balance in such a way that caused him to have to change footing to remain upright. This opened the back of the knee supporting his weight open to the punch that landed there a moment later. With a yelp, he was on his back again, Sidonie scrambling to gain the upper hand, maneuvered to put herself in a position of leverage where she could pummel him with punches.

Vilkas twisted violently out of her grip, using the advantage of his greater weight to pull away from her and on his side where he could get a hand under himself to push himself upright. The two combatants scrambled and managed to get upright, circling the other warily. Vilkas, handling his alcohol better than Sidonie, at least for the time being eyed her warily. Sidonie opened her mouth and worked her jaw out for a moment between blows.

Neither heard the quiet footsteps of the second spectator. His voice was deep, quiet, and full of disdain. "Nice to see you whelps are at it again."

The two immediately stopped glaring at the open while waiting for an opening to appear, lowering their defensively raised forearms to look at the newcomer. Vilkas' face went from quiet determination to a visage of thinly veiled hatred. Sidonie glared, her slightly swelling lip sticking out almost petulantly in grimace. Farkas, as always had a rather bland, neutral expression.

Arnbjorn. It was no secret that he hated the fact that the three younglings, had been brought to Jorrvaskr as children and reared there. He had on more than one occasion, sometimes drunk, sometimes not demanded they be sent to Honorhall in Riften, at best anyway. Being left out for the wolves and sabre cats was not uncommon to hear either. At first his malice had been purely verbal and emotional and the three rambunctious if not mischievous whelps had known to steer clear of the tall imposing warrior who was quick to anger and quicker to retalitate.

Once the children had been young men and woman, he began to take a marked interest in their weapons training. Or he had until he had nearly killed Farkas, which resulted in an epic bout of swordplay between Arnbjorn and Skjor when the latter had come to his defense, his shield just barely blocking what would have been the fatal blow. Arnbjorn denied he would have harmed the lad.

Kodlak, newly made harbinger when Askar had died quietly told the man in no uncertain terms if that particular situation ever repeated itself, he would at best be asked to leave. He also said in a similar tone that the only way the three younglings would be sent away, was if they sent themselves. He switched tactics then, becoming more subtle in harassing the trio.

For the most part, their time at Jorrvaskr was happy. Arnbjorn frequently took contracts that would send him away for weeks if not months at a time. When he was gone, it was like he was never there.

"Leave it to him to ruin a good fist fight." Vilkas muttered darkly under his breath, blowing upward and along his face to clear a lock of black overgrown hair out of his eyes. Sidonie nodded and murmured in agreement.

Farkas regarded Arnbjorn with a thick raised eyebrow. Farkas' lack of reaction to anything Arnbjorn said or did, often infuriated the man more than any witty retort from Vilkas or venomous insult from Sidonie. Arnbjorn regarded the larger of the twins with no reaction save his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. He turned his gaze slowly and deliberately from Farkas in turn to Vilkas and then Sidonie.

"What did you say girl?" Arnbjorn's voice was guttural, almost a growl. His eyes had an unnatural almost yellowish tint or glow about the irises. Vilkas' narrowed his eyes at the man. Sidonie's frowned deepened, a line threatening to crease the skin of her forehead. Her face, already flushed from exertion and mead turned just a shade redder. "I said leave it to that asshole Arnbjorn to ruin a good fist fight."

"Girl, you wouldn't know anything about a good fist fight, fighting milk drinkers like Nazeem and these boys." Arnbjorn flashed his teeth in what a passerby might suspect was supposed to be a smile.

"Then show me." Sidonie retorted obstinately, the alcohol she had consumed giving her considerably more courage and recklessness than she would normally possess. Vilkas looked to her, his face going from glaring at Arnbjorn to questioning her actions, or rather how healthy for her they would be.

Arnbjorn took a long moment to guffaw at her challenge, taking the time to place his large meaty hands on his large, hairy barrel of a bare-chest while he did so, to emphasize what little he thought of her remarks. "While I would love to girl, your father would be most upset with if I touched a hair on your pretty blond head."

"Fuck Skjor, he isn't here!" Sidonie yelled back in belligerence, her fingers fumbling at her sides, at the leather straps that held the iron chest piece to her. Even drunk her first instinct was that she would need to rely on her speed to have a chance at beating the older and considerably more massive warrior. Farkas frowned and Vilkas looked at her questioning, murmuring under his breath that taunting the older warrior was a bad idea.

"Ah, but that's true isn't it?" Arnbjorn said, coming out of his laugh with a sadistic gleam to his eyes. "Skjor wont be back until tomorrow at the earliest. He made a mistake."

"Father doesn't make mistakes, other than the one where he _let _you live." Sidonie replied nastily, her face contorting into a sneer.

At that, Arnbjorn straightened, his greatsword already in hand and he was already three paces across the patio heading to the yard before Sidonie could blink. Farkas exploded away from the table, putting himself out of reach and way of the murderous advancing Nord. Vilkas backed away slowly, looking around wildly. For people, for weapons, at Sidonie whom the warrior advanced on.

Reaching blindly, Sidonie grasped the hilt of one of the iron weapons used for forms from the training rack to her immediate right and held it before her. An axe. With a growl, Arnbjorn gave a lazy one-handed overhead swing at the girl. She blocked it straight on with the axe, putting the full force of both arms into the hilt.

With a sickening snap, the large sword embedding itself deep into Sidonie's chest. She blinked at it in disbelief, looking at it lodged just shy and to the right of where her heart beat in her chest, having clove everything between there and her shoulder where it had entered, bone, tendon, as if it was a hot knife in butter. A wash of pale took her features as the blood drained in part reaction to the sight, and the fact that most of it was now gushing from the rend in her torso. Somewhere in the distance, the axe she had held to block it skittered to a stop on the stone pavement.

The warrior placed a boot on the slumping girl's form she fell to her knees, pulling the sword almost gently out. Giving one glance to the sword and then the growing pool of blood under her. The twins shook in reaction, jaws dropped on horror, looking at him, as if expecting even him to do something. Vilkas lurched to her and held the girl together, as if by his strength alone, her shoulder would be whole; arm reattached to collarbone, the gaping tear in her chest be gone.

"This is why Jorrvaskr is no place for children." Arnbjorn said his eyes elsewhere as if in thought, his tone showing none of the previous anger he had shown before, simply emotionless. He simply turned and walked back to the double doors, wiping the blood on his massive blade off on a discarded towel.

* * *

Sidonie had woken some weeks later at the Temple of Kynareth. She was later told Farkas had scooped up the managed warrior and ran across the district, his twin screaming behind him. It had grown late by then, and Danica Pure-Spring had long since retired for the night. Awoken by two screaming young men in the middle of the night, soaked in what was nearly all the blood of the lifeless young woman they brought in, it was no small miracle that even she, a Priestess whom had dedicated her long years to healing had saved her. She claimed it was the will of the Goddess Kynareth that she live.

Skjor was furious, but Arnbjorn had long since left. No one had seen him in fact, since the twins saw him leave the porch. He left no note or spoke any words to anyone inside. It seemed he had gathered his possessions and left.

It was equally amazing she had any use of her right arm at all, let alone full use. But that took many, many months of relearning to use it once it had healed. If Sidonie thought to be frustrated by the effort involved, she hid it from the gaze of her father. Once she had been awake for the first time, he berated her that it was moronic to challenge a member of the Circle to a fight, let alone one apparently as murderous as Arnbjorn.

The wound left a long, jagged and pitted scar down her front from collarbone to just above and to the side of the nipple on her right breast. It continued to the corresponding spot on her back. It pulled at the skin and puckered in places, laying angrily pale against her lightly tanned complexion.

"Father." Sidonie had asked one late afternoon, sitting on a bench under the Gildergreen tree in the middle of the plaza, looking up at the one-eyed former soldier as he approached. "Why did he want to kill me?"

Skjor looked at her placidly, looking about him for a moment before sitting on the bench next to her. "The Circle are werewolves. Arnbjorn had more trouble than most controlling himself. He viewed you three as prey instead of as shield-siblings."

Surprised, Sidonie's lower lip dropped and she blinked, her sky-blue eyes searching into her father's warm brown one.

"It is a secret you must keep, for now, my daughter. You too someday will take the beast-blood, as all the Circle have done for hundreds of years." Skjor continued in a tone that was not unlike what he would use to describe the weather. He drew an arm around the young woman to his right, almost gingerly, pulling her to him in an embrace. "Assuming your temper doesn't get you killed before then."

* * *

A/N: While their ages aren't mentioned, the twins and Sidonie are in their mid teens, on the cusp of being considered adults. While they were raised amongst the warriors of Jorrvaskr, they have not yet done their trial to formally be considered members.


End file.
